A Christmas Bride (24 page)

A
my Lyndon's first clue that something was amiss came at eleven forty-five on a sunny Friday, the last day of March, when Daddy stormed into her room without knocking. Daddy always knocked, so this was something new. Luckily, Amy, who had just gotten out of bed, was wearing her bathrobe, or there might have been an embarrassing father-daughter moment.

“I've had it up to here with you,” Daddy said, gesturing wildly. His face was as red as a glass of Bella Vista Vineyards Pinot Noir.

“What's the matter?” Amy kept her voice low and calm. She'd learned this trick from Mom, who had been an expert at handling Daddy's sudden, but infrequent, rages.

“What's the—” His words came to a sputtering stop as a vein popped from his forehead. Uh-oh. The vein thing was a bad sign. And his complexion had turned almost purple, closer to the color of Malbec than Pinot Noir.

“Daddy, calm down. You'll give yourself a stroke or something.”

He took a big breath and spoke again in a voice that rattled Amy's bedroom windows. “Get dressed. Then get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want you out of this house by…” He looked at his wristwatch. “Noon. That gives you fifteen minutes. And if you're smart, you'll run straight to Grady Carson. I understand he's proposed. Congratulations.”

“But how did you know he proposed? I mean—”

“I'm done trying to teach you the value of work. If you want to be exactly like your mother and live in the lap of luxury without lifting a finger, then marry Grady.”

Amy said nothing. Grady Carson was the last man she would ever marry. She'd told him that to his face last week at Tammy's wedding, when he'd popped the question right out of the blue. But she hadn't breathed a word about Grady's proposal to anyone.

“And then there's this.” Daddy waved a piece of paper in front of Amy's nose. It looked a lot like an American Express bill.

Daddy pulled his reading glasses down from their resting place above his bushy eyebrows. “You spent twelve hundred dollars on shoes? Really?”

“They were Jimmy Choos, and I—”

“I don't give a rat's ass who made them. Amy, your credit-card bill last month was more than ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh, really? That much?” She was bad with money, just like Mom had been. Most of Daddy's rages were precipitated by the arrival of credit-card statements. This was a known fact.

“You're twenty-eight, still unemployed and living at home. This can't go on any longer. Either accept Grady's proposal or move out. Today.” He turned and stalked out of her bedroom.

She followed him out into the hallway. “You can't make me go,” Amy said to his retreating back. “And you can't force me to marry someone either.”

He turned, one eyebrow arched in that classic angry-daddy look. “Wanna bet? Now get your things out of here before noon.”

“But the Z4 won't hold all of my stuff.” The sports car held two people, barely.

“Oh…that's too bad. Guess you'll have to learn to live with less.” Daddy took a few steps down the hallway, then turned and said, “Or marry Grady.”

They stood with gazes locked for a moment. “I'm not marrying Grady. He's an idiot.”

“No, he's not. He's made a fortune as a fund manager. And, sweetie, you need a rich husband.” Daddy turned and continued his march down the hallway.

Maybe she did need a rich husband, but not Grady Carson. She didn't love him. Hell, she didn't even like him.

She returned to her room and stared at the clothes in her giant walk-in closet. She'd give Daddy a couple of hours to calm down about the credit-card bill. That's how Mom had always handled him. Tomorrow he would be his normal, happy self.

In the meantime, she needed to get out of the house.

She threw on a plain white tank top, a pair of Rag and Bone boyfriend jeans, her new Isabel Marant sneakers, and the black Burberry biker jacket that had most definitely contributed to the size of her Amex bill this month. But, really, Daddy needed to understand that she only went shopping in New York twice a year. It wasn't as if there was any place to buy clothes in Jefferson County, Virginia. And besides, she'd had to go shopping—Tammy, one of her sorority sisters, needed someone to help her pull together her honeymoon wardrobe, and Amy had a killer eye for fashion.

She heaved a sappy sigh at the thought of Tammy and Evan off together on a three-week honeymoon tour of Paris, Rome, and Athens. Paris in April would be fabulous.

She headed out to the circular drive and fired up the BMW Z4. Fifteen minutes later she took a seat at the Red Fern Inn, a two-hundred-year-old taproom and restaurant in downtown Shenandoah Falls. She waited a surprisingly long time before Bryce Summerville, the inn's owner, came over to the table, wringing his hands.

“Miss Lyndon,” he said in a deferential tone, “I'm sorry to ask this, but how do you intend to pay for your lunch today?”

“What?”

“Well, this is sort of embarrassing, but your father called not five minutes ago and told me not to accept your credit card.”

“He did what?”

“He called me—”

“I heard you. I'm just having a hard time believing you. How did he know I was getting lunch here?”

“You get lunch here quite frequently.”

That was true.

“He told me he's canceled your card,” Bryce said with a painful-looking frown on his face.

Amy's heart rate jumped. Daddy wouldn't really cut her off, would he? “I'll pay with cash, and I'd like the eggs Benedict.” She wasn't sure she had the appetite for them now, but she couldn't just get up and walk out. Not with Viola Ingram and Faye Appleby sitting at the adjacent table, listening in like the notorious gossips they were.

Amy waved at Viola. “Hey, Ms. Ingram, how are you doing today?”

“Just fine and dandy,” the senior citizen said in a chipper voice. “I heard that you and Grady Carson are about to make a big announcement.”

This was bad. Very bad. Someone had let the cat out of the bag. “No, Mrs. Ingram, no big announcements are pending.”

When her brunch finally arrived, she managed to choke down two or three bites before giving up on the whole food idea. When the check arrived, she used the last of her cash to cover it.

She strolled down to the Bank of America branch on Liberty Avenue, where she visited the ATM only to discover that the machine wouldn't give her any money. The bank said she was overdrawn.

Which was impossible. Just last week Daddy had deposited some money…

Oh, crap. He wouldn't. Daddy was a joint signer on the account, and what he could transfer in he could just as easily transfer out.

She was angry now.

She drove back to the house she and Daddy shared. It sat up on the ridge not far from the vineyard. She stormed up the front walk, but when she tried to open the front door, it was locked, which was odd because Daddy's office was in the house and he was always in his office. Always. Besides, Lucy, the housekeeper, was always around too.

She dug for her keys, but when she tried to open the door, the key wouldn't fit.

She stood there dizzy for a moment as her pulse raced out of control. She reached for her cell, looking for reassurance, but the darn thing wasn't getting a signal; up until this moment she'd always gotten four bars of service up here. Daddy wouldn't have shut off her cell phone, would he?

And that's when she panicked. Bella Vista Vineyard's headquarters was a short way up the drive, but she was out of breath when she arrived, having run the distance. Ozzie Cassano, Daddy's chief winemaker, was hanging out in the front drive, as if he'd been waiting for her.

“Where's Daddy and Lucy?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Lucy is on vacation.”

“Since when?”

“Since this morning. And your father isn't here either.” Ozzie's lilting Italian accent failed to calm her.

“What do you mean? Daddy's always here unless he's at home or at Charlotte's Grove.”

“I'm sorry. He told me to tell you that he's taking a vacation too.”

“Holy crap, not with Lucy, I hope.”

Ozzie shrugged. “I don't know, miss.”

“But the house is all locked up and my key doesn't work. Do you have a key?”

Ozzie had the good sense to look slightly uncomfortable. “I'm very sorry, Miss Lyndon, but your father, he told me that you were not to be let into the house under any circumstances. He also told me you were getting married soon.” Ozzie flashed his gold fillings. “Congratulations.”

Amy had fallen into a nightmare. Without a working cell phone or money or a place to sleep, Daddy was counting on her to say yes to Grady. And if there'd been a pay phone in town, she might have done exactly that. But pay phones were like dinosaurs, utterly extinct in Shenandoah Falls, Virginia.

She might also have driven to DC and thrown herself on Grady's mercy, but the Z4 was running on empty and she had zero money for gas. So she parked in the town lot and sat there thinking for most of the afternoon.

Daddy expected her to take the easy way out.

Well, screw that idea. She'd show Daddy. She would sleep in her car.

The Z4 had two bucket seats with a console between them, and neither of the seats reclined enough to make sleeping easy. Plus the sunny March day was turning into a bitterly cold March night. Could a person die from exposure when the temperature was forty degrees? She would have asked Siri if her iPhone had been working. Which, in a way, was a saving grace. She probably would have called Grady if the phone had been working.

Instead she toughed it out. And when the sky began to turn pink, it was as if she'd won a moral victory, even though it was hard to feel morally victorious when you were starving and had to pee and didn't have a bathroom handy.

But luckily Gracie's Diner had a bathroom and it was a short walk away.

Amy had never set foot in the diner before eleven in the morning, so she was surprised when she opened the door and discovered she was the first customer of the day. She hadn't been counting on that. She'd been counting on Gracie Teague being busy with other customers.

Instead, Gracie greeted Amy from her post near the coffee machine. “'Morning, Amy. Boy, you sure are here early. You want the usual?”

So awkward. She hadn't thought this through. It would be rude to use the diner's bathroom and not purchase anything. But Amy didn't have any other choices. “Uh, I'm on my way out of town,” she lied, “but I needed the restroom.”

Gracie cocked her head and gave her a once-over. Amy hated to think what she must look like after trying to sleep in a small car, so she brazened it out by turning her back and walking to the ladies' room with her shoulders straight.

She was a Lyndon. She came from a wealthy and influential family. She wasn't going to beg for the chance to pee in a toilet instead of somewhere outside. The thought of peeing in the woods left her trembling. How did a girl do that, anyway? And what about toilet paper?

The diner's bathroom was basic but clean. She did her business, washed her hands and face, and gave her hair a quick comb. She felt much better.

Hungry, but better. Still, she lingered in the bathroom for a long time, trying to figure out how to leave the diner without humiliating herself. She was running various scenarios in her head when the truth descended like an atom bomb.

She was homeless. And penniless (almost—she had fifty cents in her purse). And unless she said yes to Grady Carson, she would have to sleep in her car again tonight. Not to mention the fact that she would go hungry.

Someone knocked on the door.

Her time was up, and she didn't have a plan and didn't know what to do next, unless it was driving up to Charlotte's Grove and throwing herself on Aunt Pam's mercy. That would be the same as calling Grady, since Aunt Pam was the one who'd set her up with him, way back a year and a half ago.

She didn't want to marry Grady.

“Hon, are you all right?” Gracie called from the other side of the bathroom door. “You've been in there a while, and I…”

Amy opened the door. “I'm fine.” Her voice wobbled.

“No, I don't think so. You come out and have your eggs and bacon.”

Oh crap. What was she supposed to do now? Tears filled her eyes.

“I… I…don't. I mean, I can't…” She let go of a long, trembling breath. “Daddy locked me out of the house yesterday and told me I had to marry Grady Carson. Then he took all the money out of my checking account.” She didn't wail the words or yell them. They came out in a terrible whisper.

She expected Gracie to get angry and bawl her out for using the bathroom without having any intention of buying food. Instead Gracie draped her arm over Amy's shoulder. “Come on, get your breakfast. You can pay me for it later, after you sort things out with your father.”

Gracie led Amy to the counter, where a plate of eggs and bacon was waiting for her. She downed them like a starving person and allowed Gracie to refill her coffee cup several times while the usual Saturday crowd arrived for breakfast.

Pippa Custis, the owner of Ewe & Me, the yarn shop in town, came in for a bowl of oatmeal. Walter Braden, the owner of Braden Realty, came in with his old-fashioned paper copy of the
Washington Post
and occupied the corner table while he ate his toast and drank his coffee. Alicia Mulloy, the hygienist at Dr. Dinnen's office, ordered three different kinds of donuts. Amy wondered if Dr. Dinnen was aware of Alicia's sugar habit.

Not that Amy was judging anyone this morning, especially since everyone who arrived at the diner pretended that she wasn't there at all. And then Dusty McNeil strolled through the doors with an athletic grace that made every woman in the place, including Amy, turn and look. Somehow, Dusty always managed to look like a badass biker boy even when he wore crisply pressed khakis and a golf shirt. And he sure did fill out his Eagle Hill Manor shirt with six feet of pure muscle and sun-brown skin.